


Toccami

by sesquipedalianMarquis



Series: The Meraad Chronicles [10]
Category: Dragon Age (Tabletop RPG), Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Antiva, Casual Sex, F/M, Lady Hidalga is secretly ben-hassrath, One Shot, POV Second Person, Post-Coital Cuddling, Qunari, Rialto (Dragon Age), Sappy, Self-Indulgent, Short, Short One Shot, Sweet, Touch-Starved, Vashoth, Wealth, indulgence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-10
Updated: 2019-01-10
Packaged: 2019-10-08 00:19:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17375948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sesquipedalianMarquis/pseuds/sesquipedalianMarquis
Summary: A rich Antivan merchant princess invites a qunari mercenary to her mansion. He's a bit touch-starved.(How Sweet Antivan Wine came to pass, from the Lady's POV.)





	Toccami

There’s a Qunari in Rialto.

He’s just standing there, looking over a fruit stall like he’s contemplating whether to buy something, with the fruit vendor looking just the acceptable side of uncomfortable. A mountain of grey skin and scars, with a sword the size of a man strapped to his back. One of his rather handsome horns is gone, just a stub remains, and he looks rather strong. Strong, and so very fascinating.

You float closer, with your handmaid behind you, smile graciously at the fruit vendor and make a little show of purchasing some lemons. The Qunari watches, and you turn to him, chat about how the citruses are this time of the year. He’s the stoic type, it seems, but has mastery over Trade in a way you’ve heard is rare among their people: he doesn’t just sound like he learned it, but like he’s been using it a while, a hint of the Free Marches behind the foreign Northern cadence. He does not have a particular opinion on citrus, or on pomegranates, which you add to your shopping. _Walk with me a bit_ , you say, and he may not know who you are, but he sees that you have authority because he is not blind and deaf, so he politely acquiesces to your request. There’s a confusion on him of why you’re giving him the time of day that he doesn’t voice.

Really, you thought that despite your radiant and much-praised beauty he might have said no, what with all you hear about the Qunari. Or that he might have asked for money. Or laughed. Or expected anything, really, except for him to hear your proposition, tilt his head a little and look at you, really _look_ , stay silent for a little and say _yes, why not. I’m… amenable._

So you smile at him behind your lacquered fan and take him along.

He’s a little skittish when you get him into your carriage, which is understandable. His ridiculously-sized sword almost doesn’t fit. He almost doesn’t fit, sits there with his head bent to the side so his horn doesn’t knock the ceiling. If you had less than perfect restraint in public, you might have felt tempted to giggle. As it is, you just give him a gentle smile on a resting face. It doesn’t seem to relax him much. He is either smart or paranoid, or possibly both.

 _Meraad_. You test out his name in your head. Qunlat is not familiar to you, and you couldn’t guess at what his name means, if anything. If he even knows himself. Certainly not all horned folk that live in the South know the tongue, just as not everyone with an Orlesian name is from Orlais. Maybe he will tell you, if you keep him around for a bit. People like him usually have stories to tell. Whether they want to tell them is another story entirely.

You take him into your mansion, and he looks about like he has never seen one from the inside. He probably hasn’t, so you linger in the corridor a bit to let him stare before you whisk him off to the baths. He doesn’t debate being dusty from the road, seems almost glad to be left in your bathing room. You decide to give him thirty minutes, which is conveniently the time it takes you and your handmaid to get you out of your presentable outfits and into loungewear.

When you fetch him from the bath, he’s put his breeches and shirt back on and is scrubbing his nails clean. You trim some of them down from claws into a manageable bluntness, and then you diplomatically request for him to accompany you to your bedroom and manhandle you for a bit.

He manhandles _magnificently_. His bulk isn’t for show and he can both lift and carry you without even showing strain. Fair, because you barely go up to his chest, but you are still suitably impressed. The two of you pass a delightful hour or two where he pins you to various surfaces, tosses you onto the bed not just once but twice and actually demonstrates an appreciable amount of skill with his mouth.

And then, when you’ve decided that you’ve had enough for now, you pay some closer attention.

Because you held his hands as you trimmed his claws and his breathing went all measured. Because you touched the side of his face before you brought him in for a kiss and he all but shivered. Because he gasped when you dragged your nails through his short hair when his mouth was against your throat. Because now, he’s looking at you for guidance as you stretch out on the bed, and you have to tug him down for him to settle next to you.

He lies on his back, which is nice, because you can snuggle up against his side, which you intend to shamelessly exploit. The height of him might pose a problem on any other bed, but yours is huge, so he can actually lie down proper. He sinks into the mattress with a sigh. You roll over and plaster yourself against his side, one arm over his torso, your head resting on his arm, and there it is again. He shivers just a bit, breathes all deep.

 _Is this alright_ , you ask, search his face for what he’s thinking, and he settles the arm you’re using as a pillow so his hand rests against the small of your back.

 _Yeah. I wasn’t sure you’d want to… cuddle, is all._ His fingers curl against your skin in a gentle caress. Maybe you can get him to give you a back rub with those large hands. You curl closer against him and he does that exhale again, and again when you smooth your hand over his chest. Of course.

 _Oh, I quite want to. In fact, I request to be snuggled after sex, if you’ll indulge._ He doesn’t seem to mind that at all, puts his other arm around you and tilts his head towards you, like every inch of him is hungry for contact. If you were the size of him, you would wrap him in your arms until he’s had his fill. Not getting enough touch is an awful feeling, and you don’t think he’s realised how much he wants it until now. So you stroke his chest, his neck, press a kiss to his shoulder, throw a leg over his. Feel him relax into it, someone who’s finally getting something he’s dearly missed.

 _Indulge, huh. I can do that._ And he does, holds you so tender and so close, like you’re a trusted lover and not just someone who picked him up on the street a few hours ago. You’ll have him as long as he wants to stay.


End file.
